Sunday, December 15, 2013

Helping the hungry - Libertarian style

During the holiday season, a lot of people talk about charity and doing good for others. There are the obviously legitimate organizations that di a lot of good- Toys for Tots is one good example[1].

 Then, there are the ridiculous efforts, most notably "selfless Tuesday," when instead of actually going out and helping people, Facebook members were encouraged to change their profile picture from one of themselves to...something else (usually their dog).

This drew my ire almost as much as the morons who post status updates that read:

"Like this status if you wish cancer didn't exist! XOXOX) #badcancer #yolo."

In honor of selfless Tuesday, instead of ranting against the morons who posted the aforementioned statements, I decided to actually do something selfless. Yes, this meant that I was going to:
1.     Put on my boots
2.     Put on my gloves and coat
3.     Leave my computer
4.     Leave my house
5.     Drive to the grocery store

I originally got my idea from a priest I know.

There are a lot of homeless people where I live[2]. I don't want to give them money but I feel bad if they are actually hungry. I usually try to bring a bunch of leftovers and rolls whenever I leave a restaurant, but I typically don't keep Styrofoam containers of dinner in my car[3]

To mitigate this, I got granola bars and put them in my center console. This way I can offer any homeless people I see something at least without worrying they'll spend a dollar on drugs, alcohol, or prostitutes.

(I totally wish we could pay our politicians this way).

I shared it on Facebook (and yes, I refrained from adding #yolo). Friends shared it with their friends and eventually it caught on and others pledged to do the same.

I even promised to give a box of granola bars to whoever came by my apartment that they could keep in their cars. Most of my friends thought it was a great idea.

However, my cousin, the self-proclaimed socialist, in jest joked that what I was doing was very "un-libertarian."

I took this opportunity to educate him as to why it was quite the contrary and used it as a real-life example to show him how libertarians are not the cold-hearted capitalist pigs portrayed by the leftist media.

Libertarians are not anti-charity at all. In fact, the official stance on private charity vs. government-mandated charity is this, as found on the Libertarian Party's official website:

If the federal government's attempt at charity has been a dismal failure, private efforts have been much more successful. America is the most generous nation on earth. We already contribute more than $125 billion annually to charity. However, as we phase out inefficient government welfare, private charities must be able to step up and fill the void.

To help facilitate this transfer of responsibility from government welfare to private charity, the federal government should offer a dollar-for-dollar tax credit for contributions to private charities that provide social-welfare services. That is to say, if an individual gives a dollar to charity, he should be able to reduce his tax liability by a dollar.
(http://www.lp.org/issues/poverty-and-welfare)


Now, I don’t expect the government to reimburse me for those granola bars. For me, it was a personal decision and I had the money. I felt that I had an opportunity to directly help people while simultaneously knowing with utmost confidence that my charity is going directly to the people who need it.

I have worked with other private charities such as Habitat for Humanity as well as helped low-income people write and edit their resumes and cover letters. I routinely donate old furniture and clothes to reputable charities (I personally furnished a halfway house with my husband’s old furniture.[4])

As anyone who has every done charity work knows, there are few better feeling in this world than helping people help themselves. With private charities, the people are being directly helped and my tax dollars are not going to waste in the way that they would with government-mandated welfare, which has become a mismanaged, ill-advised bureaucratic nightmare.

Most people, even libertarians, want to help our fellow man. What we don’t like however, is being forced to pay taxes into a program that is widely abused and poorly managed, both fiscally and operationally. It’s time we let people help people again, and leave Big Government out of it.


Granola bars in the ol’ Grand Cherokee console:






[1] I know they do a great job, because I volunteered with it one year J I was an elf.
[2] I don’t live in the ‘hood- more like “’hood adjacent” or “yuppie ghetto.”
[3] I did one time and it took a month for the smell of chicken marsala to come out.
[4] After much debate, I decided against donating the Jessica Simpson Dukes of Hazard poster from 2005.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

So THAT'S why they call it an "Adult" store

 Before I begin, let me start by stating that I am not the kind of girl who talks freely about her lady parts. I’m not a Samantha, a Carrie, and especially not Lena Dunham with her stupid face and awkward naked body that she feels the need to show off. (Good luck getting that image out of your head.) I’m one of the good girls- it's true.

So it was with great giggling that my friend Marissa and I found ourselves at Priscilla’s, the “adult novelty” store for suburban housewives. In contrast to the shady “adult bookstores,” with discreet parking in the rear, these kind of stores are brightly lit, decorated in pink, and commonly found in strip malls. If a respectable woman is seen shopping there, she can just claim that she is “getting something for a friend’s bachelorette (or divorce) party.”

Yeah right, OK, sure.

We were there in search of the finishing touches for our Halloween costumes. We were going to be dominatrices (plural of dominatrix). Upon entering, we were carded (you have to be 18 to enter). We presented our IDs and headed to the costume section.

You’d assume that in a store such as this, the employees would avoid eye contact and let you shop without bother. Quite the contrary. Clearly seeing that we were probably not just window-shopping, the helpful sales lady came over and asked what we were looking for.

We told her our costumes and she shook her head.

“You can’t both be the dominatrix. One of you has to be the submissive. Which one is the submissive?”

“She is.” I pointed at Marissa. “I’m older and bigger. I get to be dominant.”

“And bossier,” I heard her mutter.

“Very good,” the lady said, as we browsed corsets and fishnets. “I’ll bring you some things that you might need.”

I knew she meant business when she returned with a shopping cart.

“You need a dog collar for your sub,” she said to me. (For those not in the BDSM community, “sub” is short for “submissive.” You’re welcome.)

“Thirty dollars?” I loudly asked. “I can get one at PetCo for like five. Let’s see what else you have.”

Priscilla's: Where respectable, classy ladies shop....
I pulled out thigh high boots, booty shorts, “love tape” (duct-tape with hearts on it), a riding crop, silk rope, furry handcuffs, ball-gag, latex bodysuit, and a whip.

I think we found where SVU gets its props from.

I smacked Marissa with the riding crop.

“Ow! That hurts!” she protested.

“Shut up. Tell me how much you like it. You’re my sub, my bitch[1]. Don’t make me open the ball-gag now.”

Not content with her role, she grabbed a nearby “toy” and started trying to hit me back. It was like Han Solo and Luke Skywalker replaced their light sabers with imitation phalluses and pleather riding crops.

This display of idiocracy prompted a full-on laughing/snorting fit that attracted the attention of the men in the trench coats who were browsing the DVD section.[2]

“I’d go with Wicked MILFs 17, great soundtrack!” I shouted, smacking Marissa again.

As soon as Marissa selected a (non-latex) outfit, we got in line. Since it was Halloween season, the only time of the year when it’s appropriate to treat a store that sells primarily stripper wear like a Forever 21, the line was long, thus leaving us time to “browse.”

I picked up a DVD, immediately frowning.

“This is all wrong,” I muttered, furrowing my brows and shaking my head.

“I know!” Marissa said. “How do those girls do that?”

“Oh no, I don’t care about that,” I said, showing her the box.  “But the title is Bad Schoolgirl’s Gone Wild. There shouldn’t be an apostrophe there. That’s implying that the schoolgirls own ‘gone wild,’ which is impossible since it’s a verb. You can’t own a verb.”

(This is the curse of being a technical writer/editor.[3])

I flipped it to the back and continued. “This is just terrible,” I said as I shook my head. “It reads ‘Enjoy hours of licking, teasing and spanking.’ They should have used the Oxford Comma here, less one thinks that the combination of teasing and spanking comprises the singular act of licking.”

By now people were looking at us, so Marissa threw it back in the bin.

We had turned the corner and were now adjacent to the counter, where several toys were on display. Now, I understand the shape of most of these toys, but this one looked like an ear of corn with two sides of the husk peeled off at a 45-degree angle.

What does it do?” she whispered to me.

“According to the box, it brings maximum hours of pleasure,” I replied, turning over the box as she turned it on.

Whatever it was, it was loud.
She's here to inflict pain...for
your  pleasure

“Turn it off,” I hissed.

“I can’t!” she exclaimed, fumbling with it.

“Hit the button!”

“I did!” she protested, showing me. “It’s just going faster and harder.”

By this point, people were looking at us.

(What? Like these people hadn’t heard ‘faster and harder’ before?)

She tried to put it back on the counter, but it vibrated louder and knocked over “The Rabbit” and “The Dolphin.[4]

The lady behind the counter came over, rolling her eyes, and turned it off.

(Apparently you just had to hold the button down.)

We finally got to the front, paid for our purchases, and received a free gift with purchase (lube).

As we walked out of the store, bags in one hand and riding crop in the other, I’m pretty sure that the lady changed the sign to read ‘Must be Over 45 to Enter.’

All I can say is that I’m glad they don’t have a “You break it, you buy it” policy in place. Or someone would be getting a very awkward present for Christmas.







[1] Hmmm…maybe I could get into this.
[2] Seriously, they were reading the backs of the DVDs like it was Blockbuster circa 1995 or something.
[3] I’ve also pointed out spelling and grammar errors in menus, window signs, and the Obamacare website.
[4] If you really want to know what these are, Google them. Not at work. Or in front of your mom.

Monday, October 7, 2013

Call of Duty: Ghosts...in Zoe's apartment


There are times when life imitates art imitating life- or something like that. Then, there are times when your own stupidity becomes your worst enemy. Although I like to think the situation from last night possessed a certain je ne sais qua of the former, the latter situational assessment may be more accurate.

It was about 11:30 p.m. on a Sunday night and my significant other (let’s call him Mark to protect his identity) was playing some Call of Duty on the couch while simultaneously enjoying a snack.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Fighting Pakistani terrorists in the slums of Peshwar,[1]” was his reply as he intently reloaded a magazine and cleared what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse.

“Well, while you’re doing it, would you please mind not eating potato chips directly off the glass table?” I asked, nicely.

“A plate’s just a barrier between my food and my mouth,” he replied, executing a shot that prompted outrage from the 12-year-olds he was playing against.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t put stuff on the glass table. It’s expensive and you’ll scratch it.”

“It’s fine, I’m done,” he muttered, tossing the controller on the glass table, clearly frustrated because he had just been killed by his opponent, a 35-year-old man living in his mom’s basement.[2]

“Are you going to log off?” I asked.

“No, I might want to play in the morning before work.”

“Ah yes,” I replied. “I wouldn’t want your little friends to think that you had gone missing. They might put an Amber alert out for you.”

We went to bed at about midnight. I had checked all the doors and made sure they were locked. I thought I heard a few sounds, but figured they were coming from the apartment upstairs.

By 1 a.m., I was dozing off when I heard a clatter from the living room.

“Mark! Wake up!” I hissed, reaching for my cell phone in case I needed to call 911. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” he asked, clearly displeased with being awoken in the middle of the night.

We lay there in silence for a few minutes and heard another series of soft clicks.

“That,” I whispered, clearly getting more nervous.

“It was probably just the blinds.”

We waited and then all of the sudden, we heard what appeared to be a louder clatter from the living room.

“Yeah, I heard that,” he said, clearly alarmed as well.

At this point, my heart was racing. Mark is an Army ranger who had served in Afghanistan and even he was scared. He pulled out his .45, loaded the clip, and chambered a round, heading to the bedroom door.

I reached for the .9 mm just in case I had to back him up. I started to assume the flank position (hey, he’s not the only one who plays Call of Duty), but he motioned for me to lay low.

“Wait here,” he whispered.

With impressive speed and agility, he yanked open the door and strategically pointed his weapon in an arc, clearing the living room as he had done many times when killing Nazi zombies. I had expected to hear gunshots and find a dead crack head on our couch, but everything in the living room was as we left it.

With skills that would put Elliot Stabler to shame, he proceeded to kick in the bedroom and bathroom doors as he looked for the perpetrator. Nada.

Finally, we returned to bed. At about 3 a.m., just as I was about to doze off, we were awoken by the sound again.

Click-click-click

“Did you clear everywhere?” I asked, intently.

“Yeah,” he replied, reaching for his gun again.

“Under the beds? In the closets?”

Realizing that I was not crazy, as he had also heard the sounds, he repeated the process of clearing every nook and cranny in our small condo, including under the bathroom sink, just in case the Keebler elves were up to no good.

For the second time that night, we returned to bed, clearly hopped up on too much adrenaline to sleep.

“We need to install a more serious security system on the porch, with motion sensors and everything.”

“With laser beams? Like Congo?” I asked, very seriously.  (At the time, I was considering hiring a full personal security detail just so we could sleep.)

He finally fell asleep, but I couldn’t. I kept hearing the noises. As the mind does when it’s the middle of the night, I began having less-than-sane thoughts.[3]

Now I am not one who believes in ghosts. If ghosts were real, my grandma would yell at me from the Other Side every time I sat on the couch in a wet swimsuit or left the refrigerator open. However, logic doesn’t apply in the middle of the night in the dark.

‘It’s clearly a poltergeist,’ I thought to myself at 3:45 a.m. ‘I’m gonna set up a video camera, and the next thing you know, I’ll become possessed and then kill Mark in his sleep.  Just great. We don’t know what happened to the people who lived here before us. They told us they moved to Sante Fe, but probably died in an exorcism gone wrong.’

At 4:15 a.m., I tried to rationalize with myself. Maybe someone was breaking in, but they were the slowest thieves in the world.

Were they stealing our DVDs one-by-one?

Click-clat…crash!

I sat bolt upright in bed looking at the door, cell phone in hand. No longer was I interested in speed-dialing 911, but Googling “How to cast out a poltergeist.”[4]

‘Yep, definitely a demon in the living room. Probably playing on my iPad right now.’

By 4:30, I was wide awake and ready to go put in our 30 day notice to the apartment complex.  I mentally prepared the letter in my mind.

‘Dear Bridges Management,
We are vacating the premise because it is haunted. We understand that we will not get our deposit back. May God have mercy on your souls.’

When Mark’s alarm went off at 5 a.m., I sat up in bed and started getting dressed.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“The gym. It’s not haunted there,” I replied, lacing up my sneakers.

(Look, if a demonic possession is what it takes to get me to work out, then so be it.)

I hesitantly opened the door, expecting to see all of our worldly possessions gone or pea-green slime coating our Crate and Barrel wine rack. Nope.  Everything still remained as we left it.

I walked out into the living room and heard the noise again. It wasn’t coming from the porch door like I thought, but instead the entertainment center. I stood in front of it, looking at the speakers, thinking there might be a wiring malfunction. Nothing.

I heard the sound again, but this time it was coming from behind me.

On the glass table.

No. F***ing. Way.

Apparently, someone forgot to quit his game. All night, his avatar was being shot at, causing the PlayStation remote to vibrate on the glass table, echoing throughout the apartment and causing the sounds that terrorized us for six hours.

I showed this to Mark, both of us sharing in the shame that a small piece of metal had caused us to lose a night’s sleep (and contemplate calling an exorcist).

We sat on the couch and watched the remote vibrate, our embarrassment increasing with every shake of the controller.

Finally, Mark spoke up.

“I think its funny that I used my Call of Duty skills against a very serious enemy apparition. Really, when you think about it, Call of Duty saved our lives.”

“Oh yeah, that was awesome,” I replied, not even trying to hide my sarcasm. “Congratulations, you went all one-man Seal Team Six on that remote. I feel so secure knowing that we’re probably safe from the Keurig as well.”



By this time, the light was starting to peek through the windows and I knew any attempts to go back to bed would be futile. Peacefully free from demons, I turned on the TV and dozed off for about ten minutes before waking to hear Bill O’Reilly yelling at a screen shot of Nancy Pelosi.

Well, maybe there are worse things than hearing demons in the middle of the night.

 
Satan no longer speaks through song
lyrics...he uses the PS controller...

…in Zoe’s apartment
 




[1] Peshwar is in Pakistan? See, video games can be educational…
[2] I don’t know this for a fact, but come on….we can be fairly certain….
[3] Usually those less-than-sane thoughts include wondering what an ex boyfriend is up to. They are usually appeased by Facebook stalking him and realizing that not only does he have a receding hairline, but a wife who may or may not be a post-op tranny.
[4] Salt and sage.